


The Man From Beneath the Waves

by percyval



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Asexual Merlin, Cryptozoology, Escape from the Government, Fisherman Merlin, M/M, Merman Charlie, Past Harry Hart/Merlin - Freeform, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 09:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13028664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percyval/pseuds/percyval
Summary: It was like fate that Hamish and Charlie found each other. A man with an unreasonably open mind finding a merman stranded on the shore and having to nurse him back to health? It was almost too good to be true. After a picture is spread around the UK like a parasite, Hamish and Charlie have to escape government agents and Scotland to free the merman and prevent him from being dissected for experimental purposes.





	The Man From Beneath the Waves

**Author's Note:**

> If that plot sounds kinda like The Shape of Water it's because I watched one trailer and decided to move on from there. Please. Stop me.

 

The roaring crash of cold saltwater onto tightly compressed sand reads like white noise. A slight draft sends a subtle shiver down the spine of the man seated at the writing desk, but he never did mind the cold that much. As a fisherman, you can't afford to have a distaste for lower temperatures. Bundled up in a warm jacket and a cable knit sweater, he hunches over his bloodied and beaten desk, scratching words into a sheet of stained parchment paper like he was struggling to slice a floundering fish. He would then lick the nib of his pen when it would stop flowing across the page, nearly cutting his tongue on the sharp edge, and continue to write. While it was horrifically outdated, it was also incredibly stylish.

The letter would be done in no time; he'd sign the envelope, seal it with the letter inside, and send it with the postman in the morning. Then, in a few days time, he'd receive a letter from his dear friend in London, and he'd have finished all of his weekly rituals. The sound of his pen nib hitting the desk through the paper and the _whoosh_ of the waves outside were the only noises he could detect, and occasionally the call of a lone gull, one that had likely perched on a wooden post a few steps outside his door. He wouldn't hear the end of it, not until he trekked out in the morning to fish with his 'mates.'

He didn't quite like calling them his mates, as he didn't like them and he didn't enjoy their company, but they were the closest he had to regular friends. Harry was his actual friend, one from his days in the army, but he lived a bachelor's life in London, only visiting once every few blue moons to see him and catch up. Within his small village, everyone was convinced that Harry was a pouf, but nobody would dare ask him to his face, instead just implying behind his back that he was light in his loafers. Of course, these comments would be made by his fisherman 'friends.'

Another gull call rings out as he finishes signing the letter.

_Sincerely, Hamish_

While it was known that 'sincerely' was just a nice way to sign letters, he'd always meant it. His parents beat it into him to not say things you don't mean. If you don't sincerely feel the way you said you did, don't finish a letter with 'sincerely.' It was as simple as that and it had followed him into adulthood. Never once did Hamish say a word he didn't mean, and never once did he sign a word he didn't mean.

However, he didn't say much these days. He'd barely spoken within the course of the past year, maybe saying a total of seventeen words before the New Year rang in. Maybe his parents advice was hindering him, or maybe he just happened to be a very quiet person to begin with. Everything he ever wanted to say was just bounced around in his head like a tennis ball until eventually it dwindled away into nothingness.

The storm keeps his thoughts at bay, he doesn't wish to think to deeply about how a fish must feel when a knife is jammed into its underside and pulled up to its chin. Now that the thought of slicing fish is there, he won't have it out for a few hours. It is just a nosy neighbour who refuses to leave until they are satisfied or bored with you.

It's Sunday, at least, for two more hours it will be Sunday, and outside he can hear men grunting and yelling at each other. He assumes his mates are just coming back into port after getting caught right in the middle of the storm. They allowed him a day off after two straight weeks of sitting out on the boat, catching about one hundred fish, enough to feed the whole village for a short while.

Hamish brings himself out of his creaky old chair and places his letter in a yellowed envelope, licking the adhesive strip carefully, and seals it between his index finger and thumb. He pulls a wool hat over his bare head before he goes out to put the letter in the outgoing mailbox. The rain is harsh, but it's nothing he hasn't seen before. The waves are screaming out as they hit the shore.

The moon barely provides enough light for him to make out the scene, but he sees the illuminated silhouettes of the boat, three men, and something being dragged from the sea. Whatever it is, it's not moving.

He assumes they'll be fine on their own, as they are three stout, burly men. Back to the cottage to light a fire and get to rest, maybe a drink before bed.

Hamish removes his warm outer shell and collapses onto his bare-bones mattress, the bed springs emitting a satisfying screech before he tucks himself in, almost immediately falling asleep to the sound of crashing waves and the rain pattering on the roof.

An occasional thunderclap and flash of lightning doesn't distress him, barely even makes him turn in his sleep.

However, just metres from his front door, a man is lying on the shore. Surrounded by the three fishermen, he looks limp and dead, pale and tangled in wet tendrils of seaweed. Their protocol for finding a dead body was call the police and wait for them, but it seemed like it would be easier to drag him further onto shore and hope someone else would report him to the police. A constable would come get him later, there is no reason for them to call in now, especially when it is so late.

The three men drag him further onto shore, lying him down on a bed of drying seaweed. Almost without a thought, they leave, going to their cottages and falling asleep like it was just another day. There's no regret, no worry about if it was humane or not, the man was forgotten like a smudge on a discarded pair of boots.

None of them notice the large gash on his forearm, gushing thick, blackened-blue blood, which streaks the sand, showing how far he was dragged before he was left on the mountain of seaweed. The body lies still for a long while, only his wet hair disturbed by the howling wind.

* * *

 

A chattering sound wakes Hamish up an hour later. He'd barely even gotten to bed when he was startled awake by the loud chirping.

It sounds like a small bird, very dissimilar to seagull squawks. Why would a bird be out this early?

He lazily pulls his trousers, heavy jumper, coat, and boots on, trudging drowsily out towards the sea. And, just to be safe, he brings a torch. At first, his guess was that a small bird was being bothered, or it was chittering at another bird. However, he didn't hear anything else beside the waves and sea breeze. There was a good chance he'd find nothing, or he was just imagining the chirping.

A rustling startles him just as he's crossing the road, but he still continues walking to the beach. His interest has gotten the best of him, and even when he feels like he could be in danger, he doesn't stop approaching the source of the noise.

He's hoping it's nothing of note. He is concerned when he sees a figure hunched over on a bed of seaweed, a figure moving gently and now turning to look up at him. He turns the torch light onto the figure, and can't help but stare.

A young man, likely only in his twenties, with wet, wavy brown hair, completely nude. His eyes are big and black, his skin shimmers green and blue and purple, and he looks like he's covered in kelp. Hamish kneels down to his level, looking him over as his fascination bubbles over like too much water in a pan. The man tilts his head gently, looking stiff and tense as the light is bounced over him. He doesn't do anything, not until the man with the light offers his hand.

His only thought was to help, at least give the man some clothes and food and send him on his way in the morning. The young man raises his hand slowly, cautiously, touching his pruned fingers to the light man's palm, and touching the thick webbing between his fingers. He pinches it, squeezes it between his finger and thumb, and he pulls on it.

The man makes a clicking noise, the one that woke Hamish up. He shines the flashlight down his body, eventually finding the wound on his arm, dribbling deep blue blood. In the moment, he has no clue what to think. A merman wouldn't be discovered in Pittenweem, a village of no significance. This is something that only larger coastal cities experience, like Edinburgh.

Hamish furrows his dark brow, thinking to ask the man something, but unable to come up with any words. He doesn't even say 'hello.' But why would a fish man say 'hello?' Whose to say a fish man would speak English?

Finally, the younger man, the fish man, takes his hand. He doesn't hold it well, he has a grip but the webbing on his fingers prevents him from holding his hand properly. However, that's just enough for Hamish. He holds the fish man's flat hand in his and guides him to the house.

He gets the hang of walking once they're halfway across the road, soon he's taking long strides alongside his human companion, following the movements of his feet as he does so. Hamish brings the fish man in and this is the first good look he gets at the man.

His face is all angles, high cheekbones that sparkle in the light and a defined jawline that leads down into slits on his neck that he assumes are gills. Past his dark hair, spines rise up, with indigo webbing connecting them. His ears are finned. His pupils look a bit smaller in the light, they appear to be shrinking the longer he looks at them, the blue shrinking along with them. Thin membranes grow off of his arms, legs, and back. Their tips are light shades of indigo, and speckled with faint green hue.

The man stands still and straight, and Hamish tries to make himself look more accommodating. He first removes his heavy coat and his boots, then leaves the man in the main room to rummage for spare clothes in his bedroom.

The fish man steps cautiously around, the aging floorboards creaking beneath his weight. The smell of the sea permeates the man's home, along with the scent cooked fish. Outside, the wind, the waves, he doesn't miss the dry cold. There's some sound coming from a place in the house, he can't find it, but it's a rattling and a soft voice.

_I'll make you happy, baby, just wait and see_

He wanders into a nook of the man's house, where he has a chair set up, along with a desk, and some box sitting on top of it, emitting the noise.

_Oh, since the day I saw you_

_I have been waiting for you_

It's pleasant, he brings himself closer to the music box and brings his ear closer to a fishnet-covered part of the device.

By the end of the song, he's attempting to hum along to the song, and the man walks in, holding some warm, clean clothes, and finding the fish man hunching over his radio. He brings himself away as the song finishes, the sight of the man startling him.

He keeps his gaze on the fish man's face, smiling subtly but warmly, setting down the stacked pile of clothes. They stare, neither wanting to make the first move. Slowly, the fish man approaches him, his footsteps matching to the beat of the next song playing.

“Please sit.” He pulls the chair out, holding a red box that he rifles through as the fish man sits down. Hamish kneels before him, removing items from the plastic box before setting it down.

He pulls out a suture, along with some iodine and a rag, and a gauze bandage. During his stay in the army, he'd done some emergency work as a medic, specialising in suturing wounds. He first uses one end of the rag to wipe the seeping blood away, just enough so he can find the wound itself. There's no question in his mind as to why his blood is blue. He cleans the wound gentler, tapping the blood away softly, leaving only the gash.

It's about the length of Hamish's hand, wide as his index finger, and blood starts drizzling out again. _He can't clot to save his life._

He now places iodine around the wound and against it, which the fish man does not appreciate. He almost hisses, clicking like he's being maimed. Hamish's eyebrows raise, then lower down just above his eyes.

“I know it hurts, but this will help you.” He goes back in, avoiding the sharp talons erupting from his fingertips.

The sutures also prove to be difficult, as the fish man doesn't understand that less pain comes at the cost of more pain. He curls his toes, looking away while he's stitched up. Hamish sits back on the balls of his feet, the discomfort begins getting to him, but he does go back in to roll the gauze over his sealed wound.

This part doesn't upset him like the others did. His toes unfurl, the pain has subsided to a subtle sting. He touches his fingertips to the gauze, over the area of the wound, and winces.

Hamish gets up, then gives the fish man his clothes, pointing his thumb back towards the toilet before going to the kitchen, pulling out a can of clam chowder and a deep pan. The man has to be hungry and he likely won't oppose to chowder.

The fish man manoeuvres his way through the bright, sterile-feeling room. He squints, disgusted by the blinding whiteness of it. His next revelation comes in the mirror. He observes himself in it, confused by the appendages coming out of his waist. The most confusing is a smaller leg-looking thing between his thighs, he pesters it a moment before eventually deciding it's not worth it. It's redundant, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything particularly wrong. Now, he's discovering the clothes the man gave to him.

He first sticks his hand into the sleeve of a cable knit jumper, one with a high neck, that he can't figure out how to put on. He huffs, stretching it out and trying to pull it over his head.

Hamish notices the door open, finding the fish man with the turtleneck stuck on his head, making that same clicking noise as before, only more frantically and violently. He takes the pan of soup off the heat, coming to his aid.

It seemed awkward, but he did help the man put on his jumper, along with his pants and trousers. The fish man watches him, curious, before he walks back to the kitchen, leaving him to finish up his business. He follows Hamish out of the room, standing a good distance away from him, watching as he prepares his food. There's a fishy scent to whatever he's making, which does smell good, but he is still cautious when he's presented with the bowl of thick, white broth.

White hunks rise up to the surface, and the fish man uses a silver spoon to mix it around. Hamish pours glasses of tap water, handing it to the man and sitting across from him at the small, rickety dinner table.

He sips the water, watching while the man pushes the clam chowder around, almost looking too scared to eat it.

“It's safe,” are the first words Hamish says to the man. He feels a bit upset that he won't eat it. Though, he considers the fact that he's trying to feed him something he can't eat.

He tries to think of a response. It had been a long time since he'd used English, it's not extremely necessary when everyone you know mainly speaks in clicks. He clears his throat quietly, opening his mouth.

Past his lips lay slightly-sharp teeth, like a shark's. Hamish tilts his head gently, taking in the full image of the man sitting before him. A man with fish-like features, ones that leave him questioning why a merman is basically a man with scales and fins. Why wouldn't he be a large, monstrous fish? He'd write to Harry again in the morning, maybe his thoughts would be clearer with a rested mind. Or he'd possibly sound mental, writing about bringing a man with fins and scales and shark teeth into his home.

“Thank you.” He replies. His voice sounds like Harry's, but his has a slow, cautious hint, just like him. It's not emotive. He speaks like someone learning a new language, putting no life into their words, or as if he's an actor taking his first read from a script.

The fish man finally brings the spoon to his mouth, dumping the contents of the spoon back slowly. Everything he does seems to have this paranoid worry to it, and Hamish wishes he could tell him that he's not going to do anything, but he doesn't know how without worrying him more.

He chews five times before swallowing it like the mere act is painful. After a pause, he goes for another bite, ultimately deciding that it won't kill him.

Hamish can tell he doesn't enjoy it. Maybe it's not cooked enough. He takes the spoon that the fish man has discarded for the time being, and tests it.

It's normal clam chowder, nothing to write home about, but it's definitely cooked. Though, maybe the man didn't like seafood.

_He lives in the ocean, what else would he eat?_

After a thought, he comes to conclusion that he just doesn't like clams. He takes the bowl away as he's struggling another bite down his throat. The fish man furrows his brow, where his brow should be, at least, and tries to take the bowl back.

“What do you want to eat?” He asks softly, setting the chowder on the counter beside the stove and crossing his arms over his chest. Weariness is settling in, but he won't sleep until the man is fed and in bed.

The fish man looks like a small child about to throw a temper tantrum, but he wouldn't pass up getting something else to eat. His stomach rumbles like thunder. His mouth waters at the thought of a whole, raw fish.

“Fish.” He says again in his unsteady voice. When will the day come that he gets more than two words out of the fish man?

The request doesn't shock Hamish, though. He assumes that the man is a snob about how he eats seafood, but that's nothing new. Harry would come over and get upset at Hamish for serving him canned fish when he lives a few strides from the ocean.

He complies, putting his boots and coat back on for a third time that night, but not any bit bothered. Another habit ingrained into his brain by his parents.

These habits are proving to be a disservice to him, but at the same time, why would he refuse comfort to someone because he is realising the detriment of his parents' lessons? He'd get back at his parents later. Now, however, he has to get proper food for his fishy ward.

It's a quick jog to his boat. The small ice box is still in the hull and after some fumbling of his near-frozen hands, he unlocks the box and finds a few fish inside. They weren't prize catches, but one should be enough for tonight. It feels fresh, still limp, like at any second it would start thrashing in his grip. He takes it, holding it to his side and trudging back into his warm home like he just needed to make sure the boat was hitched up for the night.

The fish man is still sitting in the main room, at the creaky table, poking and prodding at the sleeve of the jumper he was given. He appreciated the warmth, but he hated the dry feeling. The fabric also hurt, it stuck to him and felt like tiny needles stabbing into his skin. He begins trying to remove it, tugging at the sleeve with his nails until he hears the door click. He turns almost like he's been caught doing something embarrassing when Hamish comes in.

He places the fish on the counter before he goes to put his coat and boots back by the front door. He notices the draft, the chilly wind slipping through the cracks of the window and door. Hamish fumbles around, deciding to first light a fire before he cooks the fish. He brings a box of matches out of the top drawer of his desk, dragging it fast across the box and throwing it into the charred pile of wood. The distant flame slowly warms his hands and he runs them over his bald head before he looks up to a scene he didn't expect.

The man was hunched over the counter, holding the raw fish and tearing into it with his teeth. The cold blood has smeared over his lips and dribbles down his chin. A few specks of organ are splattered around his mouth and stuck between his teeth.

He'd find him floss after he was done eating.

Watching him eat the fish like it was the first bit of food he'd had in days was a bit surreal. Hamish had been that hungry before, but ripping into a raw, cold fish wasn't something he could say he'd do, even in the most dire situations. He sits at the fire, hunched over, eyes locked on the man. He's fascinated.

The fish man discards the fish's skeleton on the counter and approaches him, wiping the blood from his mouth and bringing himself to stand a short distance away from Hamish. He didn't like the heat, but he continued to stand there.

A look to his hand showed that the webbing between his fingers had receded, down to the short skin webbing. His fins had done the same, fading into nothing or coming to resemble human anatomy. He looked to see if the man who took him in had noticed any of this. However, he was watching the fire, the light bouncing on his face and turning his hazel eyes an intense yellow-ish colour.

As a whole, Hamish could appear intense to a stranger. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, his face was angular and his gaze always felt piercing, even when he intended to be kind and accommodating. The fish man was a bit intimidated by him, even though he spoke softly and didn't do anything mean to him beyond jabbing at him with that needle.

Hamish turns to him, giving him a small smile and standing up. He was maybe a forehead taller than the fish man, but he didn't look down on him like he was prey.

“Do you need anything else?” He asks, still in that kind way that juxtaposed his appearance, but he says nothing in response beyond a quick shake of his head.

He tries to mimic the smile that Hamish gives him, but the expression turns bigger when he does it. All of his teeth are exposed when he does this, and this gives Hamish a chance to notice that they appear like normal, human teeth now, if a bit large in the front.

“ _Oh_ , you need a place to sleep, don't you?” As if by magic, he starts feeling drowsiness overcome him and nods.

Hamish leads him to a small nook in the corner of his home, it's a tiny room with a comfortable-looking bed and a bookshelf. There was something on the wall that he saw, something he didn't get a good look at before he was nudged into the room.

He's standing in the dead centre of the room, feeling uncomfortable in this intimate place. Did he sleep here? Did his mate sleep here? It felt like a room inside Hamish himself. He starts to open his mouth to say he should be on his way, but the look on his face practically begs him to rest for the night.

He could stay here tonight, sleep, and early in the morning he could go back to sea. However, there's something intriguing about this house and about Hamish. Something that was taking precedence over returning home. It's only a night. One night of something he may not experience again.

Hamish gestures for him to look inside a dresser that he hadn't seen until he was standing in the room, and he finds warmer clothes made of soft fabric.

“You can wear those, hopefully they fit.” He stands in the doorway, watching as he discovers the room. The fish man is most fascinated by a picture hanging on the wall. Seeing as this room essentially belonged to Harry every time he visited, it was decorated with a few little trinkets that reminded him of his friend.

The picture was a painting he'd found at a market. It was a cottage, a small one with a stone chimney and a bare lawn. It had reminded Hamish of the cabin he and Harry shared just after the war ended, before they had both moved to their respective homes. Inside the frame, he tucked a photo of the both of them.

“Who is he?” The fish man asks softly, his eyes locked on the image of Hamish with hair, nuzzling his nose against the other man's cheek, who sits beside him with a huge grin on his face. He approaches slowly, staring at it for a moment. His thoughts and face become solemn.

For a while he says nothing. They both stand in silence, staring at the photo. Hamish assumes that the fish man is judging him, thinking poorly of him because of this picture, but he looks completely taken in by it. His eyes narrow, he inspects it carefully, and when he looks back, he gives him a smile. It encourages him to finally place together a few words and respond to his question.

“My friend. His name is Harry.” He stumbles on 'friend,' as Harry really used to be so much more than that, but the distance kept them from truly embracing anything. A true companion during the hardest time of his life.

He nods, biting some fraying skin on his bottom lip and looking back at the photo. “Do you love him?”

Hamish is upset he didn't take the cue that the topic still felt like a fresh wound, and his question was rubbing salt into it. But he asked it with no malice, he felt no ill-intent behind his words.

It was nothing like he and Harry's officer asking if they'd been bunking together.

“ _No, sir.”_

_His hands trembled, he held them behind his back, grasping one with the other and stood tall, keeping his face stiff and stern. Beside him, Harry held his arms to his side, he looked casual and unaffected. He couldn't understand how he could remain so calm._

_Unsteady breaths lead the officer into believing that he wasn't telling the truth, but that natural confidence Harry exudes really helped. Hamish and Harry were dismissed after the officer decided there was no proof they were sleeping together. The night was awkward, first with a question of why Hamish had acted so nervous during the interrogation._

“ _He caught onto us.” He tried to steady is restless heart, but it wasn't working._

“ _What do you mean?” Harry's eyes searched his face for an answer, but all he found was a look of minor disappointment. His gaze wandered for miles, until it found itself back at Hamish's dark eyes. The lump in Harry's throat fizzled, the realization made his stomach twist up and flip around._

_They didn't speak that night, and for a time, Hamish considered that Harry now despised him. He didn't let himself get caught up in that thought, but he was young, he was nervous, telling him to 'just ignore it' wouldn't work._

_While eventually they did speak again, the discomfort between the both of them raged on for a while longer. That is, until they ended their service and returned to the UK._

The fish man looks between Hamish and the photo, expecting an answer he won't get.

He's momentarily left to change, and when Hamish returns, he looks back to his relaxed self. Almost like the photo had been completely ignored.

The man rakes his fingers through his hair, Hamish finds himself staring before he decides to ask a question that should have been the first words out of his mouth.

“What's your name?”

The man looks like he's thinking quite deeply about the question, when the answer should have been a simple “I'm Joe.” He furrows his brow, he looks like he's being asked what the meaning of life is.

“Do. . .people like you have names?” Is his next question, but that doesn't look like it bodes well with the man.

He frowns, before shaking his head.

“You couldn't say it.” He twists a loose thread on the shirt between his nails, and Hamish tries to encourage him to keep talking. It's like pulling teeth, the more he asks for answers the more the man evades his every prod and poke.

He's not sure whether to move on and introduce himself or if he should wait for the man to finish his thought. But it seems like it will take a century for him to finish.

“My name is Hamish.” He holds out his hand, inviting him for a proper introduction. The man tilts his head, looking between Hamish's face and his extended hand. He steps closer, before taking the other man's hand in his own. Hamish forces a jerky shake, which the man doesn't understand in the slightest.

He responds with three clicks with a guttural pop between the second and last click. “Hamish.”

The way he speaks it sounds so nice, Hamish smiles at him and wonders what click-click-pop-click means.

“We can give you a name in the morning. But right now, I'm craving my bed. Goodnight.” He closes the creaky, paper-thin door behind him and trudges back to his room.

The second his head hits the pillow, he's fast asleep. He didn't think he was that exhausted from his encounter with the man, seeing as he was quite awake before he closed the door.

The thunder and rain grows deafening as the man tries to get to sleep. He could never hear any of this sleeping in the ocean, but as it gets so loud he can't bare it, it suddenly stops. Now the only discomfort is figuring out how he's suppose to sleep in this bed. The sheets are folding in on him like a straight jacket, restricting him into one uncomfortable position after the other. After struggling, clicking, throwing the sheets about himself, he settles on his stomach, cheek pressed firmly against the threadbare pillow that had been flattened after presumably years of abuse.

This fit doesn't wake Hamish, he can't even hear the man stir two doors over. His wide eyes close after a long period of stating intently at the wall. The wallpaper is fading, turning white where it may have been light blue.

The silence becomes worse than the rain and the thunder. Just the waves rolling and reminding him that he could be out there, with his friends, his family, in true silence, but for now he'd be trapped on land. At least until these awful threads were ripped out of his arm.

 


End file.
